RSVP
by Ossian
Summary: Sydney, Sark, and other complications. Set after "Uninvited". -Complete-
1. prologue

R.S.V.P

* * *

by Ossian

__

aka: Uninvited, part 4 - post-"Crossings"

Many thanks: To Rez for the beta'ing and introducing me to boardshorts. To Sigh for the Russian.

disclaimer: All Alias characters belong to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, and probably ABC.   
I'm just borrowing them for my own amusement.

This will undoubtedly make more sense if you've read "Uninvited" first.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Sydney Bristow frowned thoughtfully at the brochure, trying to decide whether or not the free vacation would be worth the hassle. She had to admit that six days and five nights of tropical tranquility sounded almost like paradise. The pictures of crystalline water, white beaches, and lounge chairs in the sun were more than a little enticing. There would be a hitch, of course. There always was. 

Only half of the round-trip ticket was in the envelope, so she'd undoubtedly have to sit through a sales pitch at the very least. She wondered briefly what she might have to agree to in order to receive the return fare and gave a mental shrug. If worse came to worst, she could always buy her own one-way ticket home. She flipped through the calendar hanging on her kitchen wall and saw that the week in question already had "vacation" printed across it in her own -perfectly forged- handwriting. 

Arrogant bastard, she thought perfunctorily. There had been no letter included in the envelope, but she hadn't needed one. The ticket's terminus was the Juliana International Airport. The brochure was for a rental property on the island of St. Martin. Sometimes she was convinced that the man deserved to be shot merely for his appalling sense of humor.

There were a thousand reasons why she shouldn't even consider going. Using the ticket could be thought of as treason on a number of levels. It might be a trap. He was a terrorist and he had betrayed her on more than one occasion. He was dangerous and presumptuous and he snored. He couldn't be trusted half as far as she could throw him and his stupid smirk gave her homicidal urges. 

Well, mostly homicidal urges.

Her expression softened unconsciously at the memory of what else that stupid smirk was capable of inducing. Even after all that had transpired in recent weeks, she still thought of that strange interlude with some measure of fondness. 

When she had awakened the second time that morning-after, she had been alone. She'd chided herself for expecting him to still be there. She'd told herself how absurd it was to be disappointed that he had deserted her. Then she had noticed that his wristwatch was still on the nightstand. She found him sitting in her living room, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, reading a newspaper she didn't subscribe to. She hadn't bothered to reproach him for stealing it from one of her neighbors. He would only have laughed. As it was, he had smirked when she'd dug out the Metro section and settled onto the sofa beside him without comment.

They hadn't done much more soul-searching that day. Instead, Sydney had pried trivia out of him. His birth date. An admission that he'd never had time to watch _Casablanca. _The revelation that he could cook an omelet even with the paltry ingredients her kitchen had to offer. The discovery that she could make his eyes glaze over just by raking her fingernails across the back of his neck.

It had been an oasis of comforting insanity in the middle of the turmoil that rocked her life, a small respite at the center of the storm. Only a few days later he had rigged a car bomb in a certain CIA parking deck. She couldn't help wondering if he'd had the photographs of his father's murder with him all along - in that duffle in her bathroom. She tried to work up the energy to blame him… but couldn't. It was like the old story of the fox and the scorpion. She knew what he was - had known long before she'd ever taken him into her bed - and she had no excuse for surprise when he acted true to his nature. 

She had eventually concluded that the time they'd spent together had been his warped version of preemptive contrition. It worried her a little that a mere thirty-six hour truce had preceded his betrayal of her to the NSA, the revelations about his father, and the latest round of Rambaldi-lunacy that still gave her nightmares. She couldn't begin to imagine what a week in the Caribbean supposed to atone for. 

As she began concocting a cover story for her father and Dixon, it occurred to her that she had already made up her mind to go anyway.

* * * *

* * * *


	2. Day One

*  *  *

*  *  *

Day One 

The small villa was just as charming as the brochure had described it.  The ocean view from the patio was picture-perfect.  The living room was elegantly simple and the kitchen was fully stocked.  French doors in the bedroom opened onto another stunning seascape and the morning sun streamed in on the wide bed.  When Sydney completed her tour of the house, though, she was able to confirm what she'd felt from the instant she had opened the front door: Sark wasn't there.

As the day wore on, he remained persistently absent.  Sydney paced through the villa a few more times.  She fixed herself lunch and browsed idly through the CDs in the cabinet beside the stereo.  She wondered if the lack of any album that wasn't at least a few years old was a statement of Sark's - or just an indication that the property's owner had little interest in updating the collection.  Eventually, she tired of staring impatiently at the white walls and put on her swimsuit.  She threw a towel over one of the patio lounge chairs and flopped down on top of it.

She wasn't sulking, she told herself.  It was a beautiful day.  For this brief moment in time, there was nowhere she had to be, nothing hanging over her.  She could just lie here and enjoy the sun on her skin, the breeze in her hair.  She would savor the cool, sweet drink on the table beside her and the sound of the waves breaking on the shore.  It was better this way.  The treacherous, smirking assassin would only demolish the soothing, relaxed atmosphere.  He could just stay wherever he was, committing whatever reprehensible acts he was undoubtedly committing.  She would enjoy all of this peace and quiet without him.

When she opened her eyes again, the sun was much closer to the horizon.  Shadows from the house and trees covered the patio and the tide was well on its way out.  Sydney wrapped the towel around herself and went back inside.  The villa was still hauntingly empty.  

She had dinner.  Another drink.  She flipped through a hundred and fifty-three satellite television channels.  Twice.  Perused the bookshelves and stared blankly at the titles.  

Eventually, she shut the book she'd been pretending to read with an irritable snap and jammed it back into the bookcase.  She stood in front of the French doors and looked out at the ocean.  The moonlight reflected off the waves and even through the glass she could see more stars than were ever visible from L.A.  If this was his idea of a joke, she was going to strangle him.  She finally went to bed and watched the shadows creep slowly across the room.

After seemingly interminable hours of listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint hiss of the ocean, there was a soft rustle of fabric, the whisper of a zipper.  He slipped into the bed almost soundlessly.  If she hadn't already been awake, he wouldn't have disturbed her at all.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming."  

Just a few months ago she would have been disgusted by the reproachful tone of her own voice, cringed at how needy it sounded.  On the other hand, just a few months ago she would have laughed at the suggestion that she could be more pained by Sark's absence than his presence.  Now, however, she simply sighed -releasing a breath she hadn't wanted to admit she'd been holding- and wrapped her arms around him as he stretched out beside her.

"It's been a terribly long day," he said, burrowing his face into the curve of her neck.  His next words were muffled between her skin and the pillow.  "I wasn't certain you'd be here."

She had to smile at the way he didn't phrase the admission.  His linguistic foibles were almost endearing - in a neurotic sort of way.  His actions might have regrettable consequences, but he was never sorry.  He might make a miscalculation, but he was never wrong.  He might be uncertain about something, but he was never afraid.  

"What?" she jibed gently.  "You didn't think I could be as pragmatic about this as you are?"

"You have been known to be a little judgmental."  She could feel some of the tension beginning to leave his body.  "Your morality can sometimes constrict your view of the larger picture."

"You must see everything in panoramic."

He chuckled quietly, familiar and reassuring.  

The sound of a sociopath laughing shouldn't be so comforting, Sydney thought. Of course, there were lots of other things about the situation that shouldn't have been comforting either, but she was beginning to forget why.  His close-cropped hair, for instance, probably ought to remind her that he'd been shorn in prison.  Instead, she was enjoying the way it tickled the bare skin of her shoulder, her cheek; pleased that it was almost long enough to run her fingers through now.  His warm hands, sliding smoothly along her sides, ought to make her think about how often they had been covered in blood.  Instead, she was relieved that they were not growing permanently cold somewhere else.

Now that he was there, unmistakably tangible in her arms, she finally recognized the knot that was slowly dissipating in her chest.  It had not been anger - as she had earlier believed.  Not annoyance that he had been playing games at her expense.  It had been worry; fear that his legendary luck had run out at last.  She was beginning to forget that she shouldn't be worried about his welfare.

She realized eventually that his breathing had changed.  His hands lay still, curled loosely against her ribs.  He had fallen asleep while she'd been pondering her newfound, ill-advised concern.  She briefly considered thumping him awake again but knew that it would be pointless. She didn't really have anything important to say - nothing he wouldn't laugh at, anyway.  And they had the rest of the week for… anything else.

*  *  *

*  *  *


	3. Day Two

*  *  *

*  *  *

_Day Two_

When morning came, Sydney woke to find Sark in exactly the same position he'd been in when she'd drifted off.  She prodded his shoulder experimentally but received no response.  Could he have been drugged?  If he'd shown up sick again, she really was going to kill him this time.  She peeled back one of his eyelids and finally provoked some semblance of life.  He turned his head just enough to bury his face in the pillow, muttering an unintelligible complaint.

"You just aren't a morning person, are you?" she observed.  Another inarticulate growl was her only answer.  She tried to rise, but the limp arm across her waist suddenly steeled.  "Let go," she admonished, jabbing at his shoulder again.  "You're perfectly welcome to lie there and sleep all day, but I'm not going to waste my vacation listening to you snore."

He twisted on his side to pull her closer.  "That's sweet," he murmured. "How you assume this holiday is for you."

Now that sunlight filled the room, she could finally see him clearly.  Even after several hours of hard sleep, he still looked grimly tired.  It was possible, she mused, that maybe this trip wasn't his idea of an apology after all.  

"Don't you ever sleep at home?" she asked.

"Not if I can help it.  You've met some of the people I work with, haven't you?"

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment longer.  "You need a new job, Marty."

"It's not the job; it's the management.  Once I replace them, it'll be fine."

"Sounds awfully ambitious for a guy who can't even manage to crawl out of bed."

"I'm on holiday," he said and she had to laugh at his petulant frown.  It made him look like a sulky ten-year-old.  "Fine, have it your way." He unwrapped his arm and shoved her away half-heartedly.  "Go broil your epidermis or something."  

"I have sunscreen," she said, leaning close.

"That's nice."  

"I could use a little help."

"You could probably use a lot of help."  He rolled over and pulled the sheet up again.  She sat beside him on the bed and stared in bemusement.  He really was going back to sleep.

"Lazy bastard."

"Holiday," he mumbled into the pillow once more.

*  *  *

It was nearly noon when Sark finally stumbled out onto the patio where Sydney sat reading.  Although he was mobile and semi-dressed in a pair of gray boardshorts, he still didn't appear to be entirely awake.  He yawned broadly and she could hear his jaw pop.  This was an interesting new side to him, she decided as he turned to frown down at her.

"What's the point of whisking you off to a tropical island if you're just going to wear a one-piece suit?  We might as well have gone to Prague."  His scowl only deepened as she folded an arm reflexively over her scar.  "There's no one here but us and you know I don't care."

"But I do."

Sark blinked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then turned back to squint at the sea.  "How's the water?"

"I haven't been in yet."  

"And I'm forced to repeat myself," he sighed.  "What was the point of whisking you off to a tropical island?"

"I've been wondering that for a while now, too."  

Sark either didn't hear her or simply chose not to respond.  He was already halfway down the short path to the beach.  Sydney watched as he waded into the surf without hesitation, clearly untroubled by whatever the water's temperature might be.  Within moments it became difficult to keep track of his dark blond head amidst the waves.  She gave a mental shrug and returned to her book.  Sark was a big boy and he'd used up her reserve of concern for his well-being last night.  She was certain that he'd be fine without her keeping an eye on him.  Despite her intentions to the contrary, however, she couldn't help glancing up after every few paragraphs.  Eventually she saw him walking back across the sand.

"So, how's the water?" she asked when he dropped into the chair beside her.

"Wet."  He ruffled his already erratically-spiked hair with his hands, spattering her with tiny droplets.  "What is there for lunch?" 

"You have the short-term memory of a gerbil, don't you?  We've already established that I barely cook for me.  What makes you think I'm ever going to cook for you?"

"You are undoubtedly the most defensive person I've ever met.  Aren't any of the other men in your life capable of feeding themselves?  All I wanted to know was what they've put in the kitchen.  I haven't looked yet."

"Sorry.  It's just that you're generally such an arrogant snot.  I keep expecting you to be a little more of a pig about women."  She was startled by his burst of easy laughter.

"Yes, Sydney.  Because if there's anything I learned during all the years spent with your mother, it's how to look down my nose at the weaker sex."

"Okay, maybe not," she grinned at his sarcasm.  "We both know you cook better than I do anyway."  

"Ironically, that is something Irina taught me."  His wide smile softened and he looked at her almost apologetically.  "I can make draniki.  She said it was her mother's recipe…"

She could see the unspoken offer in his eyes.  A lesson her mother had given him; one that should have been hers.  Her grandmother's recipe.  "Teach me?" 

"Of course."  The grin flared again as he stood.  "Let me know when you've peeled half a dozen potatoes.  I'm going to take a shower."

"Weasel," she called after him.  And couldn't help smiling at the echo of laughter that rolled back to her.

*  *  *

"You're a neat-freak," Sydney said as they put away the last plate. 

"I am not."

"We could have just left these dishes to drip-dry… or better yet, left them soaking in the sink.  But no, you had to wash them, dry them, and put them away.  You're a neat-freak."

"I'm not," he protested again, even as he carefully folded the towel.  "I just like things to be where they belong."

"It's not even your house."  She reached across him to crumple the towel into an untidy heap.  The flash of annoyance in his eyes amused her.   She could tell that he wanted to refold it but was resisting the impulse.  She wasn't certain which was the greater accomplishment - that she'd managed to discomfit him or that he'd allowed her to see it.  "I bet you haven't left fingerprints on anything here, have you?"

"That's not being a neat-freak.  That's being practical."

"You're hopeless."    

Sark shrugged amiably.  "I'm going back to bed."

Sydney rolled her eyes.  "You haven't been vertical for three hours.  You can't possibly be tired again so soon."

"Didn't say I was going to sleep," he smirked, stepping closer.  She didn't try to stop him as he slid the swimsuit strap from her shoulder.  It belatedly occurred to her that she hadn't kissed him once since he had arrived and she tilted her head to remedy the oversight.  Sark's eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned down at her.

*  *  *

"This doesn't make us even, you know," she said, as they lay tangled together on top of the sheets.

"You need to stop trying to keep score."  He wove his hands through her hair, tugging gently at the long strands that wrapped around his fingers.  "And what are you talking about?"

"I still don't know where you live."

"Because you'd like to drop by some evening when you're in town?" he snorted.

"It's a matter of principle."

He disentangled his fingers and smoothed down her disheveled hair.  "No."

She dug her fingers into his ribs in exasperation.  "Why does everything have to be on your terms?"  
  
"Why do you insist on asking irrelevant questions?" He caught her hand around the wrist and kissed her palm.

"Galway?" she guessed, refusing to be deterred.

"Not in a long time."  His grip on her hand shifted and he brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist.  

"Moscow?" she asked, even as she shivered at his touch.

"Even longer.  Do we really have to play this game right now?"  His mouth moved from her wrist to her shoulder.

"Mmm… Stockholm?" she couldn't resist teasing.

"Sold it ages ago.  Bad investment."  

"New…" she began, but he muffled her with his fingers.

"We can play your game or we can play mine," he told her.  "Trying to do both is distracting.  Would you rather know where I live or what I intend to do once I'm finished with that spot just below your left ear?"

Sydney pretended to think about it.  "I suppose we can discuss real estate later."

"Good choice."

As his tongue flicked over the corner of her jaw, she had to agree with him.

*  *  *

"Dinner?" he asked eventually.  "There's a resort just down the beach.  I thought we might go there tonight."  Sydney propped herself up on her elbows to look down at him.

"Wouldn't that be a little public?"

"This island isn't exactly a hotbed of CIA activity and, as far as I know, I haven't ever offended anyone here.  No one knows who we are.  Nobody cares."

She studied his cautiously hopeful expression.  "You just don't want to cook again."

"True," he agreed.  "But I will if you'd rather stay in."

"No, let's go.  It might be fun." 

*  *  *

She wore the one sundress she'd brought "just-in-case" and was glad she'd packed it.  Bermuda shorts and a tank-top would have looked horribly out of place even in a restaurant that was crowded with tourists.  Dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved button-down, Sark blended in just as well as she did.  Sydney shook her head at the thought.  They weren't blending, she reminded herself wryly.  This wasn't an assignment.  For once, neither of them was anything more than they appeared to be - nothing but a couple on vacation, going out for a meal.  She had to smother a snicker when Sark gave their names to the hostess though.

"Nick and Alexa Roman?" she asked when they were seated.  "Is that supposed to be clever?  Because it isn't."

"It was supposed to make you smile," he replied.  "And it did."

"You're insane," she told him.  "Besides, we don't even have rings."  He looked at her blankly until she wiggled her left hand at him.  "Rings, Mr. Roman."

"Ah."  Sark glanced at the tables around them then nodded at a woman nearby whose fingers sparkled brightly.  "What about that one?"

"Too gaudy," she said.  "I'd want something a little more elegant.  Something understated."

"That one?" Sark cut his eyes to another table.

"Where?  No.  Understated, not invisible."

"Aren't you persnickety?" he complained and she had to smile at his unlikely vocabulary.  "I'll be right back."

"What?" she choked as he suddenly rose.  By the time she could remember what name was safe to hiss after him, he was already gone.  She watched him weave his way across the restaurant and disappear down a hallway.  He reappeared a few minutes later and gave her a smug grin.  "What have you done?" she demanded as he sat down again.

"Nothing dreadful," he assured her.  He reached across the table and picked up her hand. 

She pulled it out of his grasp as he bent his head to kiss the back of it.  To her chagrin, the ring was already on her finger.  He was good, she had to admit even as she glared at him.  

"I didn't hurt anyone.  She won't miss it.  And you can turn it in to lost-and-found when we're ready to leave."

This was what she got for playing games with a sociopath.  She looked away from his impish grin before she was tempted to smile back.  Prolonged exposure to him was definitely hazardous to her morals, she thought as she stared down at her hands.  It was a beautiful ring and a perfect fit.  Whatever he'd done to get it had already been done and surely little harm could come from keeping it for another hour or so.  

"You're a very bad man," she said, looking up at him at last.

"I've never claimed to be otherwise."

"What am going to do with you?" she sighed.  He shrugged.

"Help me take over the world?"

She was still chuckling quietly when the waitress came to take their order.

*  *  *

Dinner proceeded without event.  Sark was trying hard to be entertaining and Sydney let herself be charmed.  It was becoming easier and easier to let go of the things she knew she ought to be concerned about.  She rationalized it by telling herself that everything would be back to normal by the end of the week.  She'd go back to L.A. and resume her good and honest and proper life and none of the things she did here would matter.  She tried to ignore the little corner of her mind that whispered how simple it would be to not go back, to live like this all the time and have no regrets.  She knew it wasn't true.  But for a week, she could pretend.  She was amused by Sark's feeble protests as she dragged him onto the small dance floor.

"You aren't that bad," she said after several songs had played.

"I never said I couldn't dance.  Just that I didn't want to.  And you don't have to sound so surprised.  I had a very good teacher, after all." 

"My mother?" she asked and couldn't help rolling her eyes at his nod.  "Is there anything she didn't teach you?"  He grinned mischievously and then kissed her.  

"Do you still want me to answer that?" he asked, resting his forehead against hers.

"No.  Please don't." She closed her eyes.  "I don't think I really want to know."

His laugh was low.  "As fond of me as Irina might once have been," he said.  "She was never that fond."

"Good," she replied, more relieved than she wanted to admit.  "Then take me home and show me something you didn't learn from her."

Sark blinked once at her boldness, then grinned again.  "Yes, ma'am."

At the door he stopped and held out his hand.  She gave him a puzzled frown.

"The ring, Sydney.  You do want me to return it, don't you?"

She blushed and pulled the ring off quickly.  She wanted to kick him for the look he gave her when she dropped it into his palm.

"If you like it that much, I can always get you another."

She made a face and headed to the car without him as he smirked in amusement.

*  *  *

"And I didn't learn any of that from your mother."  
  
"Stop it," she shuddered.  "I told you, I don't want to know.  That's just disturbing."  She punched at him in the darkness, but it only made him laugh more.  

After a minor skirmish with elbows and knees, they finally settled into a position that both of them could agree upon.  It wouldn't take long to get accustomed to this, Sydney thought as sleep tugged at her.  To curl up in Sark's protective embrace after satisfying sex that had followed a good meal, sharp conversation, and a nominal amount of bickering - it could easily become cozily familiar.  She was even beginning to feel almost complacent about the fact that they couldn't make it through a simple dinner without engaging in minor criminal activities.  After all, it wasn't as if she hadn't been absolving her father for the crimes he perpetrated on her behalf for years now.  By comparison, Sark's petty theft for her entertainment was almost benign.  Before she could be distressed by the questionable nature of her drowsy musings, she was distracted by warm breath in her ear.

"If you don't find somewhere else to put your cold feet, Syd," he murmured.  "I refuse to be held responsible for my actions."

"As if that's a novel threat coming from you," she snorted, tucking her toes farther beneath his calf.  He sighed in resignation.

*  *  *

*  *  *


	4. Day Three

*  *  *

*  *  *

Day Three 

"Are you stockpiling or recouping?"  Sark merely blinked at her blearily, so she attempted to clarify the question.  "You seem so determined to sleep away this vacation.  I was just wondering if you're storing up for something that's coming or making up for something you've missed."

"I realized something at your apartment a few months ago," he replied, nestling his head against her shoulder again.  "You'd never kill me in my sleep."

"Not unless your snoring becomes unbearable," she agreed.

"And you wouldn't let anyone else."

"Kill you in your sleep?" Confusion began to tinge her amusement.  "While you're lying beside me?  No, probably not."  She waited for him to continue, but eventually it became clear that he thought he'd answered her question.  A rogue tuft of hair stood up on the side of his head and she tried to smooth it back down.  "You really trust that I'd protect you?" she asked at last.

"Only here."

His tone was matter-of-fact and Sydney was shaken by his certainty.  She wasn't sure which interpretation of the simple statement disturbed her more.  Was it his assumption that she would ever defend him?  Or that she'd let him be harmed in any other situation?  

"So, I'm supposed to be your bodyguard this week?" she said, retreating into easy banter.  "And here I thought you'd invited me along just for the sex."  Her redirection prompted a snort of muffled laughter.

"If sex was all I wanted, I could have brought anyone.  I have it on good authority that I'm cute, you know."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" 

"No, probably not.  I think it's quite possibly the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"Something rather horrible, I imagine," he said cheerfully.  

Deciding that was probably true, she tweaked his ear anyway.  Then she scraped her fingernails down the back of his neck just to hear his breath catch.  He responded by doing the same to the small of her back.  Her hands moved across his shoulders as his slid over her hips.  As he brushed across her scar, she shuddered.  She folded her hand over his, pressing his palm against the ragged disfigurement.

"Tell me that's over," she said.

"You don't need to worry about it anymore."  His tone was firm but she'd heard the almost imperceptible pause.

"Tell me it's over," she said again.

"They won't get what they want."

"Damn it, Sark," she snapped, sitting up abruptly.  She could feel his sudden tension, but couldn't tell whether it was caused by her unexpected movement or by the name she used.  "Just this once, can't you give me a straight answer?"

He sat up behind her and leaned against the headboard.  "This might come as a bit of a shock to you," he said.  "But there are some in the Covenant who don't believe I'm entirely trustworthy.  I suspect that there are a great many things they aren't telling me and I don't currently have the resources to ferret them all out.  I can't tell you what I don't know and I hate to disillusion you, but there's a hell of a lot that I just don't know anymore."

"Not even this?"  Her voice had fallen to a whisper and she felt her eyes well up as he slowly shook his head.

"You'd be naïve to think that they put all their eggs in one basket, so to speak." He attempted a wry smile.  "But isn't it good enough for you to know that the continued existence of the Covenant isn't part of my long-term strategy?  I don't intend to let them get anything they want… no matter what it is.  If I tell you that you don't have to worry about it, can't you just accept it?"

"Tell me…"  Her voice trailed off and she blinked back her tears.  

"Don't ask me for things you know I can't give you," he said softly.

She knew that he wasn't speaking just of answers and information.  She knew, without a doubt, that sooner or later he was going to be responsible for things that might hurt her.  But she wasn't here because he'd ever hidden what he was or told her reassuring lies.  She hadn't come because he'd ever made her pretty promises they both knew he couldn't keep.  She could never claim that he'd misled her.  She knew what he could offer her… and what he couldn't.  

*  *  *

"We should do something today."

Sark raised a skeptical eyebrow.  "Such as?"  

They were sitting on the patio, watching the morning tide roll in.  Sark was trying to peel an orange, without much success.  Sydney was tempted to take it away from him and do it herself but resisted.

"I don't know.  Something.  What about scuba diving?"

"I don't think so."

"We could rent a boat.  Jet skis?  Bicycles?"

"You're not serious." 

"What about horseback riding?"

"Horses?"  The antipathy in his voice was unmistakable.

Sydney sighed.  "We could drive up to Marigot and see the fort."

"Or down to see the one in Philipsburg?"

"Yes."

"No."

"You can be a real bastard when you try."

"I can be one when I'm not trying; it's probably genetic.  Why do we have to go do anything?"

She reached over and took the orange from him.  "Because that's what people on vacation do.  They do things.  Don't you have any hobbies?  I mean, besides pissing people off?"

"No.  That one seems to occupy most of my free time.  And if your next suggestion is parasailing, I'm going to pack."

"Golf, then.  I drove past a golf course on the way here from the airport."

"The golf course," he corrected.  "You passed the golf course.  They only have one.  And do I strike you as being someone who's ever had time to learn how to play golf?"

"I'm not expecting you to be a professional.  We could just go and have fun."

"I don't golf."  He frowned at the peeled orange when she threw it back at him.  

"Then the only thing left is the Butterfly Farm."  His look of horrified disgust was priceless.

*  *  *

"You're right.  You really do suck at this."

"Thank you.  Are we finished, then?"

Sydney shook her head in amusement as she watched Sark stand with a golf club hitched over his shoulder in a decidedly un-golfer-like stance.  "How many balls do we have left?" 

"Six," Sark replied as he swung.  "Five," he amended happily.

"You're aiming for the ocean, aren't you?"

"It's a much more realistic target."

"You're doing this on purpose.  If you can't be good at something, you're going to be deliberately awful?"

"There's something therapeutic about purposefully doing something spectacularly badly.  You should try it."

"You just want me to help you lose the rest of the balls.  I give up.  You win.  We should go."

"We could at least play out the box," Sark protested with an exasperating grin.  "I'm finally beginning to have fun here.  And I believe we've managed to madden the poor fellows queued up behind us - so the morning hasn't been a complete loss."

*  *  *

It only took four more holes to lose the rest of the dozen balls they'd started out with.  Over lunch at a small Creole restaurant, they agreed to give Pic Paradis a try.  That might not have been such a brilliant idea, Sydney conceded as they surveyed the large number of people surrounding the foot of the small nature trail.  Sark was eyeing them with a look of ill-concealed revulsion.

"You aren't armed, are you?" she asked and had to snicker when he merely bared his teeth.  "They're only tourists.  Try not to hurt any of them."

"Can't I thin them out just a bit?"

"It's not that bad.  Most of them are on their way off the mountain anyhow.  It must be a tour group finishing up."

The dirt path proved to be much more sparsely populated than they had feared and Sydney was able to keep a safe distance between Sark and most of the unsuspecting hikers.

"Now, wasn't that worth the climb?" she asked as they sat on the edge of the observation platform, looking out over the bay.

"It was better than golf."

Sydney pretended to ignore his sarcasm.  It was a beautiful view.  The wide harbor was flecked with bright sailboats and the island of St. Bart's was just visible on the horizon.  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Sark surreptitiously flexing one of his legs.  Her gaze was drawn, as usual, to the jagged scar.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.  "Where I uh…"

"Put a pickax through it?"  He smiled thinly and shrugged.  "Sometimes."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?  It's hardly as if you were unprovoked."

"Remorse just isn't something you're familiar with, is it?"

"You do know the clinical definition of a sociopath, don't you?"

She sighed and looked back out over the harbor.  "I do.  And I'm beginning to think it might be contagious."

Sark laughed.  "What do you believe qualifies you to be in my class?"

"Being in your company.  That alone meets at least half the criteria."

"You regret entirely too much to ever be a proper sociopath," he assured her.  "You regret things that were necessary, things you had no control over.  You even regret things other people have done."

"Julia wasn't another person."

"You were programmed and don't even remember her.  It's ridiculous for you to feel remorse for anything she did."

"She was me."

"It's not the same…"  

She watched realization hit him. For an instant, he appeared more stunned than she'd ever seen him. Then a frown started between his brows and she knew he'd begun to comprehend what she'd just said.

"You were never programmed.  It didn't take."

"No."

"So, you do actually remember the last two years."

"No.  I… It's complicated."

"Explain it to me."

Sydney cringed at the coldness in his voice and wondered why she'd ever started this conversation.  "I had my memories erased to protect the Rambaldi cube."

"You did this to yourself?"  His look of undisguised astonishment returned.  "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.  That can't be all of it."

"As far as I know," she said miserably.  "It is."

He stared at her for a moment longer before erupting.  "That's absolutely moronic," he snapped.  "Didn't you think it through?  You weren't the only one who knew where that bloody cube was. How could you possibly think your ignorance would protect it?  How could you ever believe you'd be able to accept not knowing what had happened?  You must have had a better reason than that to do this to yourself."

"I don't remember.  I didn't want to.  I just…"  She stopped, unable to speak as her throat constricted.  Sark wore an expression she'd never seen him direct at her before - contempt.

"I never took you for a coward, Sydney."

She glared at him angrily.  "What the hell do you know?  You have no idea what it was like!"

"Apparently, neither do you."

"You bastard!  This is all your fault!"   The sudden accusation surprised her just as much as it seemed to confuse Sark.  She shook her head at his baffled, questioning look and fled.  She didn't know how far down the trail she had run before she tumbled to a stop.  She drew her legs up to her chest as she sat beside the path, struggling to regain her composure.  

She didn't know why she was so upset.  He hadn't said anything she hadn't already thought herself.  And maybe that was the problem.  Everyone at the CIA who knew had been so supportive, so sympathetic.  So patronizing.  There had been compassion in Dixon's eyes, understanding in her father's.  But they were both always trying to protect her.  Sark never pulled his punches.  That was one of the things she… appreciated about him.  To hear him voice her own doubts aloud made them seem so much more credible.  

Sark had always been safe - emotionally if not physically.  She'd always known that he would never judge her.  He'd never be disappointed by any of her actions and his opinion didn't matter to her anyway.  But somehow, it had happened.  He had judged her after all.  His disappointment had been as unexpected as it had been unmistakable.  And it hurt.  As badly as if it had been her father, as much as if it had been Dixon.  

What had she done?  

And why had she blamed him?

Her breath caught as an explanation leapt to mind.  It probably wasn't The Explanation - because she suspected she might never know what her real thought process had been.  But it was a plausible rationalization.  Sark had always felt like a uniquely intimate threat, even before her Covenant nightmare.  The danger he posed, even now…

She gasped again at a touch on her leg.  Sark knelt in the dirt before her, daubing at the gash in her knee with a damp cloth.

"You're an idiot," he said conversationally.

"You carry a handkerchief," she replied and he smiled at her dazed non sequitur.

"At all times.  One never knows when there might be blood."  He motioned for her left hand and she obediently held it out.  Sark poured more bottled water onto the handkerchief and began to clean her scraped palm.  "I may have been a bit hasty up there," he said slowly, not looking up at her face.  "Even if you have an absolutely pathetic excuse for your actions, I'm sure it seemed -to you- like the best choice at the time.  Though I must admit I'm somewhat hazy on my alleged culpability in all this."

She snorted quietly at his backhanded apology and wiped at her eyes.  Her right hand was just as scratched as her left and she held it out for him, too.  

"Do you think it's any coincidence that I turned up just a few days before your extraction?" she asked.  "I knew the plan.  To get the gold, they needed you…  And you were the one person I couldn't deal with.  You would have known there was no Julia." 

He stopped wiping at her palm and finally met her gaze.  "You really believe I'd have been able to see through something your Covenant handlers couldn't?"

"If anyone could, it would have been you," she said with resigned certainty.

"I'm flattered.  But you also believe I would have betrayed you?"

"Probably."

"Maybe."  He tilted his head thoughtfully.  "Maybe not.  It might have been fun."

"You have the screwiest idea of fun."

"You wouldn't have wasted the past six months.  You'd still be on the inside.  You could have protected the cube; I could have helped you.  We could have worked together so much more efficiently.  That's the real reason, isn't it?" he asked as she looked away.  "You weren't afraid that I'd expose you.  You were afraid that I wouldn't."

She couldn't deny it.  That must have been at least part of her reason for getting out when she did, the way she did.  She knew instinctively that she must have feared looking up into those clear blue eyes and knowing that he understood her.  How easy it could have been to join him then - the way he'd always seemed so certain she one day would.  She even would have had Kendall's approval. 

"You would have ditched the two-bit Euro-trash thief for me, of course," he said, following her train of thought as if he could read her mind.  "Both sides would have commended the move.  The Covenant would think you were showing ambition and the CIA would have enjoyed receiving a higher level of intel than Walker could provide."  He sat back on his heels.  "And you and I would have ended up exactly where we are right now."

"In the middle of a rainforest with me crying and bleeding and you being…?"

"Confused and exasperated?  Well, maybe not exactly where we are right now."

No, she thought.  Not exactly.  And she wasn't certain anymore that the alternative might not have been an improvement.

"Come on, Sydney." Sark stood and offered her a hand.  "It's getting dark.  I'm not carrying you and I don't feel like doing jungle recon tonight.  We can continue this discussion elsewhere."

*  *  *

Conversation was minimal on the hike down the mountain and during the drive back to the villa.  Sydney insisted on dressing her own wounds using the small first aid kit that Sark provided.  She didn't really want to know why he'd brought it.  When she emerged from the bathroom, she found him sitting on the patio in the dark.  He had poured them both glasses of wine and she picked hers up before sitting down in the chair beside him.

"If your intentions were to protect the cube, avoid me, and forget everything you'd been forced to do over the past two years," he said.  "One out of three is not a resounding success rate.  I find it extraordinarily difficult to believe that the only child of the two best strategists I've ever met could come up with such an ultimately futile plan."

"I'd love to argue," she said.  "But honestly, I'm just as stumped as you are.  I've been racking my brain ever since I found out that I'd done this to myself… and all I can come up with is that it must have been a hell of a couple of years."

"At least your account explains why no one I've talked to ever seemed to have a credible excuse for your memory lapse.  I'd thought they were keeping it from me just to be tedious."

"You've been trying to find out what happened to me?"  She was oddly pleased at the thought.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not particularly overjoyed with my current situation.  Most anything that annoys my employers pleases me.  You annoy them a great deal.  I thought if I could discover what you'd done to vex them enough to take such drastic measures, I'd have something interesting to bargain with.  And all you did was steal their little Rambaldi box."  He paused to take a drink of his wine.  "I'm really starting to dislike that man."

"I always thought that you were one of the true believers."

"I've spent my entire life surrounded by the Rambaldi-obsessed," he snorted.  "It's brought none of them anything but trouble and madness.  Why didn't you just pour out the contents of the cube there in the desert and stomp on it a bit?"  She giggled, both at the mental image and at Sark's wistful tone.  And possibly because of the wine.  She waved her glass vaguely.  

"Not a clue."

"Would have saved us all a few rounds of shooting at one another."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence a while longer, sipping wine and staring out at the ocean.  Finally, Sark rose and offered Sydney his hand once again.  

*  *  *

A sharp cry roused her.  It hadn't been loud, she realized once her heart stopped pounding.  Only near.  Sark lay beside her, every muscle taut, and she was surprised to discover that he was still asleep.  His fists were clenched tightly in the sheets and his breathing was irregular.  She brushed her fingers over his cheek, feeling the knotted muscle of his jaw.  His eyes snapped open and she gasped at the sudden flurry of motion.  In an instant he was above her, hands at her throat, thumbs digging for her windpipe.

"It's me!" she rasped, clawing at him.  "It's Syd!  Martin, stop!"

Sark froze.  "Syd?"  His hands moved to her shoulders and he pulled her upright.  "Sydney?  Sydney!"  She coughed harshly and leaned against him.

"I'm okay," she assured him when she could speak again.  There would be bruises in the morning, but they worried her less than the stark fear she'd seen in his eyes as he'd stared down at her blindly.  "What was that?"

"Nothing," he said, stroking her hair.  "It was… just a dream.  It was nothing."

"Right."  She could feel the way his hands still shook, the way his pulse still raced.  "Try again.  What does a sociopath have nightmares about?"  She could just discern his thin smile in the darkness.

"You don't really want to know."  

"Ordinarily, I'd probably agree.  It's just that the thing you woke up screaming…  It was 'Sydney, no!'"

"It was nothing."

"Liar."  

"I don't remember."  Sydney had a feeling that neither of them was convinced.  His arms remained tightly locked around her as they lay back down.  "I don't dream," he murmured, as if reassuring himself.  "I never dream."

"Everybody dreams."

"I don't.  I never sleep deeply enough.  Especially not if someone else is with me."     

"Who else would be with you?" she asked.  Then immediately wished she hadn't.  "Sorry.  Forget I asked.  It's none of my business.  You can do what you want.  After all, I slept with Will."  She mentally kicked herself even as the words slipped out.  "I'm sorry.  That was - You didn't want to know that."

"Will?" he repeated blankly.

"Will.  Tippin.  He's the…"  
  


"I know who Will is."  He had gone very still beside her.  "What is it about that man?" he muttered.  "And why are you telling me this?"

"I kissed Vaughn, too," she couldn't help adding now that she'd started.

Sark closed his eyes.  "Has anyone ever pointed out to you," he asked wearily.  "That your bizarre desire to go about confessing things is rather unhealthy given what you do for a living?"  He opened his eyes again and looked down at her.  "I wasn't bothered when I thought you'd killed my father.  Why would you suppose it might matter to me that you slept with Tippin?"

"I don't.  It doesn't.  I just…"   She vehemently regretted ever beginning this conversation.  If she kept opening her mouth, she was going to end up confessing things that were even worse.  Like how when she'd been running her hands through Will's short hair, it had been the blond assassin and not the one-time reporter that she'd been thinking of.  His ego was bad enough as it was.  "What would have happened if you'd had that dream while anyone else was with you?" 

"Nothing.  It wouldn't have happened.  When I told you that you're the only person I trust not to kill me in my sleep, I meant it.  I don't sleep if there's anyone else in my bed.  Wouldn't matter anyway," he added almost absently.  "I doubt anyone I know would be surprised I dream about you killing me."

He had dreamed about her killing him?  She surmised from his careless wording that this wasn't the first time either.  "Is that what it was?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," he replied, abruptly stiffening again.  Sydney wondered if he were unconsciously beginning to let down his guard around her or if she were just learning to read him better.  It was also possible that she wouldn't have felt his tension if she hadn't been pressed so tightly against him.  "I don't remember…  Maybe."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.  

"Why are you always trying to apologize for things that aren't your fault?  It was my dream and it doesn't mean anything.  Actually, I probably ought to be apologizing to you."

She listened to his heartbeat gradually slow to normal.  Her throat ached where his thumbs had pressed.  "You know, Marty, saying that you probably ought to apologize for something isn't the same as actually doing it."

"No?"  

"No."

He was silent for so long that she began to believe he wasn't going to speak again at all.  Finally, however, he did.

"Generally, if I injure someone, I intend to do so and it seems rather meaningless -on both sides- for me to apologize for it.  I'm not accustomed to unintentionally hurting people."  His fingers moved softly over her hair.  "I am sorry, Sydney."

"That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

"No, but…"  

"It's okay," she sighed.  "Go back to sleep, Marty."

He had gone still once again and it took her a moment to figure out why.  It wasn't just that he was unaccustomed to apologizing for things.  He was even more unaccustomed to being forgiven.

"I just tried to strangle you in your sleep," he said.

"I was awake.  You just tried to strangle me in your sleep."

"And you're all right with that?"

"Not exactly, but you didn't mean to do it and you did apologize.  I told you before - I'm just as capable of being pragmatic as you are."

"You know, you probably need therapy as much as I do."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "And the sad thing is, I'm already seeing a shrink."

"I'm so glad those aren't my tax dollars at work." Sark shifted slightly, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head.  "I assume I haven't been a topic of discussion in your sessions?"

"Like I need to give them any more reasons have me committed?"

"I suppose not," he said.  "Though if another confessional mood strikes and you get the urge to tell the Boy Scout about sleeping with me, you ought to take a video camera along.  I think I'd rather like to see how that one turns out."

"That's not funny."

"Yes," he decided after a brief pause.  "It is."

*  *  *

*  *  *


	5. Day Four

*  *  *

*  *  *

Day Four 

Sark wasn't there when she woke again at dawn.  Sydney put on one of his shirts and went to make herself a pot of coffee.  She was sitting on the sofa, watching the sunrise through the patio doors when he came back.

"Running," he said to her unspoken question.  He dropped a pair of sandy trainers beside the doors.

"You aren't going to put those away?"

"I'm living dangerously."  He eyed her coffee mug with disapproval as he sat down next to her.

"You didn't ever go back to sleep last night, did you?"

"You've been complaining all week that I slept too much."

"I've been complaining for two days.  And since when have my complaints ever affected anything you do?"

He didn't answer but reached to brush the hair away from her face instead.  He tucked a fallen strand behind her ear, then his hand moved lower.  His fingers curved around the back of her neck and he circled the bruises on her throat with his thumb.  After a moment, he rose and gave her a crooked smile before disappearing into the bedroom.  Sydney listened to the water run in the shower for a few minutes and then moved outside.

*  *  *

"We are not doing anything today."  His tone brooked no argument but she wasn't inclined to disagree with him anyway.  Between all her cuts, scrapes, and bruises, she didn't really feel up to making any public appearances.  She watched him struggle to peel an orange and once again tried to resist the urge to do it for him.  

"Why don't you find something less complicated to eat for breakfast?" she asked, wrapping her fingers around the arms of her chair to keep them occupied.

"Same reason I don't find a less complicated woman to spend my holiday with."

"You like doing things the hard way?"

"I like oranges."

She blinked at him, but he was still frowning intently at the fruit.  He couldn't have been oblivious to her stare, but he offered no further commentary.  She watched him peel thumbnail-sized flakes for a little while longer before she went back into the villa to change clothes.

In the bathroom, Sydney had to shake her head.  It was just as orderly as it had been all week and it still struck her as oddly amusing.  Her makeup bag sat on the cabinet, neatly lined up beside Sark's shaving kit.  Every personal item that either of them had was always tucked carefully back into their respective cases immediately after use.  It was a practice both had become accustomed to during their unconventional careers.  If a base of operations had to be quickly abandoned, it was easier to manage if everything was already packed.  Even here, the habit was hard to break.  The sole exception to this was the pair of toothbrushes lying side by side next to the sink.  They were identical.

It had been unintentional, at least on her part.  Or perhaps it had been her subconscious at work.  She didn't know.  It was almost as unsettling as it was comical.  She'd bought her new toothbrush just before the trip.  She'd liked the color and chosen the style at random.  She hadn't remembered until she'd seen his that she had owned one just like it before.  Sark's toothbrush appeared to be just as new - same color, same style.  Both looked exactly like the toothbrush Sydney'd had in Romania nearly three years ago.  She chuckled softly, as she had every time she'd come into the bathroom this week, and picked up one of them.  She'd long since given up trying to keep track of which was hers.  

Sark had finished his breakfast by the time she returned and was gazing vacantly out at the ocean.  He started when she dropped the bottle of sunscreen into his lap.

"You used to have such good reflexes."

"You try spending two years in solitary confinement and then come harass me about reflexes.  I assume you want me to do something with this?" he wrinkled his nose at the bottle.

"You're the one who decreed we aren't going anywhere today.  The least you can do is make yourself useful here."

"The least you could do is wear a swimsuit that makes it worth the effort."

"I thought you weren't a pig," she said as he began to rub the sunscreen across her shoulders.

"I'm just trying to be appreciative.  You don't like being admired?"

She couldn't think of a good retort.  Especially when his hands were doing distracting things to the exposed skin on her back.  She gave up and let him finish.  After all, he was only doing what she'd asked him to do.  He looked at her warily when she sat up and took the sunscreen from him.

"You are planning to sit out here with me, aren't you?" she asked.  When he failed to answer immediately, she presumed acquiescence and reached toward him.

"What are you doing?" he flinched away from her.

"Sit still.  You're as bad as my dad.  On those rare occasions in my childhood when we actually went on vacation, he never remembered to put sun-block on his ears.  You'll thank me later."

"Or we could forego this whole sun worshipping ordeal and I could thank you now."

"Nice try, Marty," she shook her head at his grin and painted a line of sunscreen down the length of his nose.  "I'm not going back to L.A. without at least a little tropical tan."

*  *  *

Sydney opened her eyes to find Sark studying her.  Judging by his pensive expression, he'd been doing mental exercises while she dozed.  Somehow, that made her terribly apprehensive.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replied, though the lilt in his tone told her he was itching for her to press him.  She wanted to pretend she could resist his challenge but knew she was no more capable of letting his 'nothing' go than she had been able to stop herself from opening that hotel room door in Bucharest.  She narrowed her eyes and frowned, but he merely smirked and looked away.

"What?" she sighed again.  He pursed his lips as if considering whether or not to tell her what he'd been pondering.  She considered whether or not to throw something at him.

"There was no Julia Thorne," he said at last.  "So, when Julia was with Walker - it was you."  He looked at her thoughtfully.  "That's… interesting."

"What is?"

"Just something he mentioned.  It's not important."

"You talked to Simon about me?"  She sat up and stared at him with mounting horror.

"The topic might have come up."  He was grinning mercilessly now.  "He seemed quite taken with Julia, you know.  I believed at first that he was simply trying to impress me, make me jealous.  I've since revised that opinion.  Apparently he wasn't as prone to exaggeration as I'd assumed."

She desperately wanted to know what they'd discussed but knew that asking Sark was exactly what he wanted.  Unfortunately, it was far too late for her to feign indifference.

"What did he say?"

Sark cocked his head, striking his thoughtful pose again.  "Far be it from me to remind you of things you went to such lengths to forget."  He laughed at her aggrieved expression.  "I would have enjoyed taking you away from him," he said.  "Do you have any idea how tempting it was to ask for an introduction in Pamplona?"

"I half-expected you to try it."

"Unfortunately, you seemed edgy enough already.  Getting us both killed just to amuse myself for a few moments didn't seem strategically sound.  Watching you try to become invisible through sheer willpower was entertaining, though."

"Is there anything I've done in the past few months that you haven't found to be just hysterically funny?"

"You nearly broke my nose in Graz.  That wasn't particularly enjoyable."  They both sobered for a moment.  

"It had to look convincing."  When Sark nodded, she knew that he'd allowed her to steal back the cube.    
  
"Allison's death would probably have been sufficient evidence of your superior skills, though," he noted.

"It wasn't me…"  

"I know - I meant collectively.  It appears we all underestimated your Mr. Tippin."  His expression was grim and she regretted the turn of the conversation, although he'd been the one to initiate it.

"Is she…"  She couldn't bring herself to finish the question, uncertain how to phrase it.  

"Actually dead this time?"  He smiled humorlessly and shrugged.  "If she isn't, no one is telling me.  And that's a position I'm becoming exceedingly tired of being in."  

"You're going to do something really stupid soon, aren't you?"

He gave her another tight smile.  "I prefer the phrase 'boldly imaginative'.  And I've never said I was going to do anything.  Except maybe go back indoors.  It's beginning to get hot out here."

*  *  *

After a light lunch, Sydney left Sark obsessively drying the last of the dishes and went to lie down.  When he followed her into the bedroom a few minutes later, she was reading the paperback she'd started on the airplane.

"Any good?" he asked as he flopped down beside her.

"Not really.  But I'm too lazy to do anything this afternoon and not tired enough to sleep."  Sark rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling as she turned another page.

"You should have stayed Julia," he said.

"We're finished with that discussion," she replied, not glancing at him.

"I don't think so."

"You can think it was as stupid as you want; I just don't want to hear about it anymore.  What's done is done."

"But I haven't finished complaining about it yet."

She had to chuckle at that and finally looked at him.  "Why are you so aggravated about this?  It wasn't as if I did anything to you personally.  You're not the one with the memory holes.  You don't care about the Rambaldi crap.  I'm here with you right now.  What exactly is it you feel the need to whine about?"

"I'm not whining; I'm griping.  And how can you say you haven't done anything to me personally?"  He looked slightly affronted but she could also see the glint of humor in his eyes.  "You're not the only one who lost time.  You've wasted another six months of my life with your brainless stunt, too.  If you'd stayed on as Julia and worked with me, it's entirely possible that I could have had my money back by now."

"It's not really your money," she said thoughtlessly, then grimaced.  Sark was still for an instant before replying.

"It doesn't matter whether or not he's still alive," he said with an indifferent shrug.  "It will belong to me once I take it."

"Then what?" she asked, setting her book aside.  "What would you be doing now if we'd somehow managed to liberate your inheritance?"

He shrugged again.  "You're part of this hypothetical exercise.  What would you do with eight hundred million dollars?"

"I'd disappear."

"You'd get bored."

"I'd take down Sloane."

"That's understood.  What else?"

"How far do you think that money is going to go?"

"As far as it needs to.  Don't you have any interesting ambitions?"

"Like what?" she asked.  "Save the world?  Start my own drug cartel?  Demolish every Rambaldi artifact I can find?"  
  


"Global salvation is infeasible - no matter what the budget.   And the drug trade is too unreliable, full of criminals.  Let's go with the anti-Rambaldi crusade."

"Seriously," she said, sliding down in the bed until their faces were even.  "What would you really do with all that money?"

"Seriously?" he repeated.  "The anti-Rambaldi crusade is beginning to grow on me."  His expression was so sincere that she was almost tempted to believe him.

"You're still awfully pissed at your dad, aren't you?"  Not a single muscle in his face moved as she brushed her fingers across his cheek.  She wondered just how old he'd been when his father had abandoned him for the Rambaldi quest.  

"Not every father is blessed with the paternal instincts of Jack Bristow."

"On the other hand, not all of them have a roomful of gold to pass along to their children either."

"That's worked out well for me so far, hasn't it?"  His smile twisted sardonically.  "Should you ever inherit Jack's empire, though, I think you might be surprised by the extent of it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let's just say that your father's contingency plans are of considerably more practical value than my father's seemed to be."  Again, she could see the bitter tightening of his lips.  "What was the first thing Jack said to you after your miraculous return from the dead?" he asked abruptly.  

"Sweetheart," she said, feeling almost guilty and not certain why.  

"And Irina?  The very first time you saw her again as an adult?"

"She said she'd been waiting almost thirty years."

"Who are you?"  There was a bleakness in his expression that made her heart ache.  "That's what my father said to me.  'Who are you?'  The man left me eight hundred million dollars worth of bullion and hadn't even bothered to find out what I looked like now.  You'd think that entrusting me with so large a fortune would have prompted some sort of curiosity about me on his part.  Irina always knew what you looked like.  She kept meticulous track of you."  He laughed suddenly - a sharp, resentful sound.  "Did you know he attempted to tell me your scheme to fake his death had been for my benefit?  As if it had never occurred to him that I was in prison at the time and an inheritance I'd no knowledge of would be useless to me.  I really don't believe he knew.  He had no idea where I was… who I was…"

He fell silent.  Sydney nestled closer.

"My mother shot me once," she offered and was rewarded with the faintest of grins.

"Doesn't make you special.  Your mother has shot practically everyone I know at least once."

"And you?"

"No.  She did break my arm, though."

"Maybe that means she likes you."

He laughed then, light and clear, and his dark mood seemed to evaporate.  "I don't care what Irina Derevko thinks of me anymore," he said as he leaned toward her.  "I care what her daughter thinks."

"Her daughter thinks you're incorrigible."

"Is that all?"

"No.  She also thinks you're overdressed and too far away."

*  *  *

"Maybe we should do something today after all."

Sydney lifted her head to give him an incredulous look.  "You decide this at six-thirty in the evening?"

"I've been thinking."

"That is not what you've been doing," she disagreed with a grin.

"Before that."

"Before that you were whining about how much I've cost you in the past six months."

"I can multi-task," he said.  "And even at half a percentage point, the interest on eight hundred million is no paltry sum.  Now, as I was trying to say, I saw a beach bar while I was out running this morning.  They have a live band tonight and it's close enough to walk to."

"Is it one of those burger and barbeque places?"

"Absolutely not," he shuddered.  "They have real food - lobster and steak."

"Are you sure you can afford that, you impoverished snob?"

"If you aren't dressed in seven minutes, I'm going without you."

*  *  *

Coconut Joe's was not the type of place Sydney would ever have expected to see Sark eating.  Not in a million years.  Not wearing shorts and a t-shirt and pair of scruffy sneakers.  Not wearing a mischievous grin and sun-freckles across the bridge of his nose and gesturing with his fork when he talked.  The entire L.A. branch of the CIA could have walked across Joe's deck, passed among the umbrella-topped tables, and never looked twice at him.  He seemed so dissimilar from the Armani-wearing, Petrus-drinking assassin they were all so familiar with that he could have been someone else entirely.  

This is what he would look like if he were a normal person, she thought.  She could imagine that in a few more months lived like this, the sun would lighten his hair, darken his skin.  He might have a few more scars if she'd managed to make him go windsurfing with her, or rock-climbing.  By then, he might have stopped having nightmares that forced her to cover bruises with heavy make-up.  He might even have managed to talk her into buying a bikini.  They might have become regulars here, like the couple a few tables over seemed to be.  Sydney had watched them joke with the bartender and waitress.  Several members of the house band had greeted them as they passed.  She had watched them talking together, eating, dancing.  They seemed… content.  

"Euro for your thoughts," Sark said, flipping the coin at her.  She caught it and shook her head.

"Just… wishing for something I can't have."  It was too much of an admission and his smile softened.

"The only person saying you can't have it is you."

"It's not that easy, Marty."

"Easiest thing in the world.  You're already here.  All you have to do is stay."

"I can't."

"Give me five good reasons why not."

She blinked at him.  "Five?"

"Five."  He held up a hand, waved his fingers at her, and then closed it into a fist.

"My father."

"Would understand better than anyone."  He raised his index finger.  "Send him a postcard."

"My job."

He snorted as he lifted another finger.  "The CIA has hundreds of officers, thousands of employees.  They'll hardly miss you."

"I'm one of their best," she countered, somewhat defensively.  

"Contrary to popular belief, Sydney, you are not the center of the universe."  His expression became almost apologetic.  "I can understand how you might be tempted to conclude otherwise, of course - between your parents, Arvin Sloane, and even Milo-bloody-Rambaldi.  But the world does not revolve around you.  The United States government won't collapse just because you stop working for them.  You just aren't that important."

"But I am to you?"  She wished the words back as soon as she'd spoken them.  Sark didn't seem fazed though.  He merely gave her a crooked smile and shook his head.

"My world revolves around me.  I can't change that; not even for you," he shrugged.  "But my organization is considerably smaller.  Your value to me would be proportionately more significant than your value to the Agency is."

"Proportionately more significant," she repeated.  "Is this your sales pitch?  Because I've heard better."

"Better than what?  I'm offering you the opportunity to take back your life and putting nearly a billion dollars at your disposal to do it.  You're not going to get a deal like this from anybody else."

"And what do you get out of it?  You're offering me money you don't have, to do things I intend to do even without your help.  What do you want in return?"  

"I want you to stay," he said simply.  "You've known that from the very beginning."

She stared at him, unsettled by the directness of his answer.  "You've never been serious."

"I've always been serious.  You're the best agent I've ever worked with or against.  Together we'd be unstoppable." 

"That's it?"

"What sort of proposal do you want from me, Sydney?"

She realized abruptly and to her dismay that she wanted him to admit it was more than a business arrangement.  Judging by the way he looked away from her for the first time in the conversation, he had come to the same realization.

"This current arrangement is either temporary or permanent," he said, gazing at some distant point beyond her.  "If it's temporary, I can't offer any other incentive.  It wouldn't be… fair."

Sydney found herself blinking rapidly and trying to swallow around a lump.  Despite his ambiguous wording, his meaning was abundantly clear to her.  There were some promises he could not afford to make until after she'd chosen to stay.  

"You haven't finished answering my question," he reminded her.  "I asked you for five good reasons and you only came up with two untenable ones.  Why won't you stay?"

She sighed and gave him the only other answer she could think of.  

"Because it's wrong."  He stared at her for a long moment.  Then he threw back his head and laughed - not sarcastically, as she had expected, but with genuine amusement.  "I know; that's the stupidest thing you've ever heard."

"Second stupidest," he conceded.  "That hole in your head still tops my list, but it's a very close second.  Of all the things you've done -of all the things you've done with me- how could choosing to stay be any worse?"

"It's just… It would be like giving up.  I'm not ready to give up."

"And you accused me of preferring to do things the hard way?  You are the most exasperating woman I've ever met."

"You're not exactly a prince, you know."

"I might be."  He grinned ingenuously and she knew that he wanted to move away from the heavy conversation as much as she did.

"You're not even remotely royal," she snorted.  "The Agency has been trying to trace how Lazarey ended up with all that gold and it turns out that your family tree is awfully wispy.  Have you even looked at it?"

"Frankly, I've never been that interested."

"Your father is a fifth cousin, twice removed from the main line or something.  Your ancestors must have been from the goat-herder branch of the family."

"At least we're ambitious," he said loftily.

"And delusional."

"Now you're just being petty again."

*  *  *

She had taken off her sandals to let the water lap at her feet as they headed back to the villa.  Sark walked higher in the sand and she laughed at his attempts to stay dry yet near at the same time.  Almost without thinking, she slipped her hand into his, forcing him to walk with her in the water.  She laughed again at his exaggerated, long-suffering sigh as the waves soaked his shoes.  But his fingers stayed firmly laced through hers.

*  *  *

*  *  *


	6. Day Five

*  *  *

*  *  *

Day Five 

She woke slowly, lazily - content with the weight of the head against her shoulder, the warmth of another body sprawled beside her.  Her fingers twined through his short hair, curved softly around his skull.  He moved then, arm tightening around her waist, face nuzzling closer to her own. She really could get used to this, she thought as she listened to the light rain drumming on the roof.  

"You're not asleep," she said as Sark stirred lethargically, brushing his nose against her jaw.

"No point getting up just to watch it rain."

"We should have done something else yesterday when we had the chance."

"I liked what we did yesterday."

"That's because you're a lazy bastard."

"Some of it took energy."

"Most of it didn't actually require you to get out of bed, though."

"I've nothing against continuing that trend."

She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair again, wishing absently that it was long enough to dishevel.  He sighed and nestled closer.

"I have to go home tomorrow," she said at last.

"No, you don't."

"I'm going home tomorrow," she amended and wasn't surprised when he failed to disagree a second time.  "I suppose then everything will be back to normal."  
  
"This isn't normal?"  She snorted at his overly-innocent tone.

"No, Marty, it isn't.  For instance, calling you Marty is just unnatural."

"I've always thought so."

"Do you know how insane they'd think I was if I ever called you that in a briefing?  Especially when it isn't a name that shows up in your dossier."

"Really?  How negligent of your researchers."

"You know, we never have discussed why you lied to me."  She nudged him off her shoulder and rolled over to frown down at him.  

"I contravened the letter of your requirement, not the spirit of it," he said, grinning wryly.  "You didn't really want to know what name was on my birth certificate.  You wanted to know who I was."

"And this is who you are?"

"You know me better than anyone."  The impishness seeped out of his expression as he reached up to twist a wayward strand of her hair around his fingers.  

*  *  *

"How is this supposed to work?" she asked.  "How are we supposed to pretend nothing has changed?"

They were both lying on their backs, though Sydney's head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. The rain was still beating down on the tile roof, so they'd gone back to bed after breakfast.  She wasn't inclined to complain.

"Nothing has changed," he told her.  "I still think of you exactly the same way I always have."

"Always?"  Something he'd said long ago rose in her memory.  "My mother's surveillance photos…  The first time you saw them.  What did you think then?"

"You were Irina's daughter."  She heard a faint echo of lingering fondness in his voice.  "I thought you were beautiful and brilliant and deadly.  SD-6 had already recruited you by then.  Not long before, but long enough that I knew you'd probably be able to kill me if you tried hard enough."

"You have a serious kink in your system," she couldn't help noting.

"You can blame that on your mother, too.  She set a very high… and uncommon standard for all other women in my life.  Very few have measured up.  You've managed tolerably well."

"Tolerably?"  

"Clearly you're not quite the genius I'd been informed you were.  And since you haven't managed to kill me yet, you aren't as lethal as one might have expected, given your training.  Possibly you just haven't been properly motivated yet, though, so I'll withhold judgment on that for the time being."  He traced the rim of her ear, the edge of her jaw.  "I must admit, however, that you are just as beautiful now as you were then.  Perhaps more so.  I knew you'd be a challenge," he continued.  "You always looked so stubborn in those pictures.  Determination -your mother called it- but it was stubbornness nonetheless.  I can't imagine which of your parents you got that from.  And I knew you'd be fiercely passionate.  You never do anything half-heartedly.  You throw yourself completely into whatever cause you choose - regardless of how unwise or undeserving it might actually be."

"You decided all that when you were fifteen?"

"It's been refined a bit over the years - but essentially, yes."

"And did you ever think that you and I might one day end up… here?"

"It crossed my mind occasionally.  We live in a very small world," he said.  "People like us don't fit in just anywhere.  I suppose I hoped that should our paths ever cross, you'd see something that fit."

It was more than a little disconcerting, she thought.  He had admired her for nearly a decade, considered a relationship with her, and yet was still capable of holding a gun to her head if the situation demanded it.  She wasn't certain she would be able to do the same.  She wasn't certain she wanted to be someone who could.

"You don't belong in my world."

"No," he agreed.  "But you don't exactly belong there anymore either, do you?"

"All I ever wanted was a normal life."

"Normal is just a habit.  Wouldn't you rather wish to be happy - whatever the circumstances?"

She laughed weakly at that.  "You think you could make me happy?"  

"No one can make you happy, Sydney.  That's entirely up to you.  Until you decide what it is you really want, you're not going to be happy with me… or with anyone else."

It was an annoyingly insightful comment.  "Where'd you pick up the psycho-babble?" 

"Oprah," he replied.  "There's very little else on American television in the afternoons.  The Agency let me have a small set for a while - until I decided that I really would rather stare at cement walls than watch that drivel."

*  *  *

"What are we going to do if it ever comes down to me or you?"

"May the best man win," Sark quipped easily.

"I'm being serious."  She propped her chin on his shoulder and scowled.

"So am I.  If you insist on going back to the CIA, anything less than business-as-usual in the field is going to make all the wrong people suspicious."

"You've been deliberately screwing up missions to help me ever since the Covenant sprang you," she protested.  

"I've been screwing them up to help me," he corrected her firmly.  "Any benefit to you has been entirely incidental.  Don't sentimentalize the situation.  You know I haven't changed.  What would happen if you had the opportunity to stop me from doing something that you fundamentally disapprove of, but you didn't because you were afraid of hurting me?"  He fixed her with a steady gaze.  "You'd hate me - which I'm quite accustomed to.  But you'd hate yourself as well."

"You think it would be better for me to hurt you?"

"No," he laughed.  "Not for me.  But I'd respect you more if you tried.  If you're not going to be the best partner I've ever had, I'll have to demand that you be my best opponent."  He gave her a wry grin and kissed the tip of her nose.  "Do you really want to know what would happen if it ever comes down to me or you?"

"That was the question."

"Fine.  Should that day ever come," he said.  "We'll have three options.  One, I kill you because I'm better and faster and you let your guard down."  Sydney shivered at his words and felt him shrug.  "Should that occur, however, you can take what comfort you will from the fact that I'd likely not long survive you.  There's a ridiculously long list of people who would be more than eager to usher me into the afterlife for that particular transgression."  He shifted to settle his arms about her more securely.

"Two," he continued.  "You get extremely lucky and manage to kill me."

"Lucky, my ass.  I clean your clock every time we fight."

"You win when it suits me.  Stop interrupting.  So, I have a very bad day and you kill me - with no regrets for having actually been better than me in that one instance."

"Does the word 'arrogant' mean anything to you at all?" she teased, trying not to read too much into his eccentric attempt at easing her potential guilt over his hypothetical death.

"It's only arrogant if it's unfounded," he replied blithely.  "And then there's option number three…  When the time comes, we both put down our weapons, say 'fuck 'em all', buy ourselves an island in the South Pacific, and raise little blue-eyed children to be pearl divers."  

"Pearl divers?" she repeated in startled amusement at his unexpected whimsy.

Sark stared thoughtfully at the whitewashed ceiling.  "No, perhaps not.  The images of Grandpa Jack and Grandma Irina are just too frightening to contemplate.  On second thought, we should just go back to the epic Rambaldi-bashing plan.  I really don't have much use for children."

Sydney dissolved into laughter at her own mental image of her parents as grandparents.  The prospect of having to explain to either of them who the father was brought on a second fit of giggles.  "They'd kill you," she snickered.

"Who?  Jack and Irina?  Undoubtedly," he grinned back at her.  "I'd like to think they'd spend long enough arguing about who'd get to do the honors, however, that I might manage to escape in all the chaos."

"And that's the most serious answer I'm going to get out of you about this?"

"That's the most serious answer there is."  His expression sobered.  "If there really is no other choice, Sydney, fight your hardest… or tell me you want to move to the beach."

"You know, you're not the first assassin to offer me a Pacific island," she said, looking away from him.

"So, what happened to the other fellow?"

She picked at the edge of the sheet.  "I killed him."

"I see."  He tugged the sheet out of her grip.  "How do you feel about the Mediterranean, then?  Because I'm not set on the Pacific."

*  *  *

"Where do you live?"

"We are not doing this again."

"It's a simple question."

"And you haven't thought any further about it, have you?" he asked.  "I tell you where I live and the next time your director asks if anyone has intel on my current whereabouts… you'll say what?"

"Dixon asked me two weeks ago if I had any idea where you were.  If I were going to turn you in like that, I would have sent a retrieval team down here in my place."  She threaded her fingers through his short hair and gave his head a gentle shake.  "I'm not a Girl Scout, Marty.  You're a very bad influence."

He chuckled lightly.  "I have a safe-house on every continent.  I don't like any one of them better than the others.  If you can find them, you're welcome to visit, but I'm not telling you where they are.  After all, I had to find your flat on my own."

"Like that was difficult?  I'm in the damn phonebook."  She pushed him over as he snorted with strangled laughter.

*  *  *

They finally crawled out of bed late in the afternoon.  Sark stoutly refused to cook, so they made sandwiches for dinner.  He eyed her potato chips with distaste; she mocked his insistence on separate knives for the mayonnaise and mustard.  The meal miraculously concluded without bloodshed.

It was still overcast outside and the humidity was relentless, so they remained indoors as the evening tide receded.  Sydney found an old movie on the satellite television.  The badly dubbed French made it even more amusing than the original had been - although perhaps not intentionally.  Sark lay with his head in her lap, kept semi-conscious by her fingers playing idly through his hair.  It felt absurdly normal, she thought - this oddly domestic scene.  When the movie was over, she flicked off the television with the remote.  Sark opened his eyes and smiled up at her lazily.

"Walk with me," she said, nodding toward the door that led to the beach.  

"Outside?" he grimaced.  "It's stifling."

"It's better now.  The local weather station just said so."  
  


"What do they know?  They're on the opposite side of the island."  

"So, they're five miles away at the most?  I never realized until recently that you're such a whiner.  I guess we could just sit here and watch another movie."

"You are terribly manipulative," he complained as he sat up.  

"Blame it on the company I keep.  I think you're rubbing off on me."

"One can only hope."

Neither of them bothered to put on shoes before they headed out to walk along the strand.  Sark seemed resigned to the fact that he was probably going to end up with wet feet. Sydney took his hand, this time more intentionally than she had the night before.  He didn't even look surprised, just folded his fingers around hers as comfortably as if he'd expected it.  

The sky was beginning to darken and stars winked through the thinning cloud cover.  Ships' lights bobbed out in the harbor and the lights from the resorts and various beach bars gave them more than enough illumination.  Other couples were out strolling as well. Each time a besotted pair passed them, Sydney found herself drawing closer to Sark in unconscious imitation.  He gave her an understanding smile as their shoulders brushed together.

It hit Sydney suddenly that the man holding her hand was not Sark.  This man beside her didn't exist anywhere outside this island, this moment.  It was frightening to realize that he could remain this person if she wanted him to…  And that he could vanish for exactly the same reason and she might never see him again.  He was not the Covenant's errand boy or Sloane's unpredictable ally or even her mother's erstwhile director of operations.  He more than just Sark the killer and Julian the not-so-dutiful son.  Even Marty was just a splinter of who he really was.  She had seen every aspect he had and the sum of all the parts.  And she knew him.  

He was a pace ahead when he realized that she had stopped moving.  She hadn't realized it herself until she felt his tug on her arm and he turned back to face her.  She couldn't read his expression, but hers must have been clear to him.  He raised his hand to her cheek.  She hadn't realized that there were tears either until his fingers brushed over them.  

They walked slowly back to the villa in silence, though she chuckled softly when they turned around and he offered her his other hand to avoid wading in the deeper water himself.

*  *  *

"Sydney," he sighed before covering her mouth with his own.  His kiss was gentle and sweet, full of promise and regret, and unlike anything she had tasted from him before.  

This was not fucking Sark or even having sex with Marty.  There was none of the reckless playfulness that had always been between them; not selfish lust that they had sated or thoughtless comfort that they had taken from one another.  There was, instead, a deliberateness to every movement, a world of unspoken meaning in every touch.  Every kiss, every caress, every thrust was memorized, for Sydney didn't know when -or even if- this could ever happen again.

"Martin," she cried against his shoulder.

*  *  *

She lay in his arms, too tired to move - though whether her fatigue was more physical or emotional, she couldn't have said.  Her exhaustion was irrelevant, though.  She had no desire to change her position, more than content to remain in his sleepy, possessive embrace.

"Dushen'ka," he murmured.  "Dusha moya."

The endearment was so quietly breathed that she almost wasn't certain she'd heard it, wasn't certain she might have misheard it.  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and hoped that the tears didn't leak onto his chest.  He was either talking in his sleep once again or he had assumed she was the one asleep.  

My darling.  My heart, my soul.  

The incentives he'd said he could never offer as inducement to stay.

It didn't change anything.  She had already made up her mind.

*  *  *

*  *  *


	7. Day Six and epilogue

*  *  *

*  *  *

Day Six 

She found him sitting on the patio watching the sunrise.  He didn't look up as she sat down beside him.

"When does my plane leave?" she asked.  

"Soon.  I would have woken you in a little while."

"My tickets?"

"On the kitchen table."

"Martin…" she began, but realized that she had nothing to say.  He nodded as one corner of his mouth quirked upward.  "I have to finish packing."

He finally turned toward her as she stood.  "Stay with me."

She shook her head slowly.  "One of these days you're going to ask me that and I might just surprise you."

"I won't be surprised," he assured her.

"How long are you going to keep asking?"

"Until I don't have to anymore."

She had to smile at his grin despite the seriousness she saw in his eyes.  

*  *  *

*  *  *

_two weeks later_

Sydney Bristow frowned disbelievingly at her credit card statement. Surely there was a decimal in the wrong spot, she thought.  Maybe someone had hit a wrong key.  But a horrible suspicion began to grow in the back of her mind even as she tried to rationalize it.  She found the first item tucked between charges from the gas station and the grocery store.  The other was listed just below the boutique where she'd bought her swimsuit.  She began to swear quietly… in Russian and French and Dutch and every other language she could think of.

She had absolutely no doubt that wherever Martin Sark was at that very instant, he was laughing.  

She was certain that he knew the billing cycle of her card, how long it took the postal service to deliver it, what time she got home.  He knew exactly when she would open the statement.  When the phone rang, she didn't bother with formalities.

"You son of a bitch."

As she'd expected, his laughter was the only sound on the line.  She hung up on him.

She was furious.  And she knew that was what he had intended.  It was a reminder.  He was a terrorist and he had betrayed her on more than one occasion.  He was dangerous and presumptuous and he snored.  He couldn't be trusted half as far as she could throw him and his stupid smirk gave her homicidal urges.  

Well, mostly homicidal urges.

*  *  *  *  *

*  *  *  *  *


End file.
